


Like The City

by demisms



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, M/M, Raleigh is a city in North Carolina, gross flirting, lattes, pizza grease
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisms/pseuds/demisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's a city called Raleigh?"</p><p>"Yeah, in North Carolina."</p><p>"Were you born there?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"So your parents just hate you, then."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raleigh, North Carolina

**Author's Note:**

> i was bored at a starbucks and decided to give "raleigh" as my name and wow were there a lot of fun mispronunciations. but then i flirted with the barista boy and... yeah, i write fanfictions at work it's boring.
> 
> unbeta'd and really stupid!

"Next!"

The pretty brunette with light brown eyes (and too much eyeliner) smiles, drops her coin change into the tip jar and hurriedly tries to cram her receipt and cash into her wallet while moving to the bar to wait for her order. The music playing overhead finally — _finally_ — switches over from country to some alternative crap that Chuck still can't stand, but likes notably more than he likes the mournful warbles of a man singing about a pickup truck and his dead dog. He knows this song, even hums a handful of bars while sweeping some danish crumbs off the counter distractedly. He's on autopilot from their rush hour, grabbing every extra second that he has and using it to be productive; to make sure his work station is presentable and restocking what he needs. But his stacked towers of paper travel cups are practically falling over because of how top heavy they are, and even with two of the other baristas on break, Natasha and Joy are still lounging by the espresso machines, idly making coffee while discussing Joy's newest addition to her sleeve tattoos.

Chuck is a little too Spartan to relax like that, though. He's only had this job for two months and his customer service is incredibly lacking — he has a hard time smiling about nothing, for no reason, and at grumpy human beings that can't function until they've had their morning coffee. For what he lacks in gratuitous smiles he makes up for in neatness, in cleanliness, and in diligence when it came to drink orders. The first two months were amateur hour, were the time to make mistakes, and thus far he had only (totally, completely, all-his-fault) messed up three customers orders — statistics that Chuck was personally very proud of. From the way his manager looked at him, he was on the fast track to a key-holder or shift leader position, which... wouldn't mean much in terms of a pay raise, and would mostly just mean more responsibility and more opportunities to be yelled at by _every_ one. But the _title_ was important, Chuck had decided. There was a good reason he had been hired at the busiest Broadcast Coffee location to begin with, and another reason he was scheduled to open instead of working the closing shift, and his prowess deserved recognition so far as he was concerned. 

As it was, his third opening shift in a row was almost over, and Chuck couldn't quite tell if he had to pee or was just really bored, really excited to ditch the apron and name tag, and to get out of here. His left leg is jiggling impatiently, and he looks at the clock as his next patron finally clues in to the fact it's his turn.

He's tall and blond and —...Chuck sees far too many faces each day, too many for anything remarkable to jump out at him about this guy other than he's the last customer in the queue that had significantly thinned out since this morning. That in itself makes it easier to fake a smile and uncap his Sharpie.

"Hi, what can I get for you?"

"Hey, um," the man starts, then... Stops and glances up at the chalkboard menu hanging above their heads. Chuck's dealt with enough of them by now to recognize a first timer, a coffee novice right off the bat. "Can I have a coffee?"

"What kind?"

"Black?"

It takes a lot of self restraint for Chuck not to roll his eyes. There's a huge wall of (mostly decorative) glass containers filled with beans for various house blends behind him, along with six brewers keeping the ready-made coffee warm, and this guy had the audacity to just say _coffee._ Fine.

"You don't want black coffee, mate," he manages to say instead of barking out something more sarcastic, and considerably more insulting. The blond man looks surprised, but not offended.

"I don't?"

"If you're this chipper right now without already having had any? Nah, you don't." It took Chuck two grande double-shots to get wired, though he suspected his tolerance was growing now that he had pretty much unlimited access to free caffeine. This guy looked like he'd be bouncing off the walls with the two fingers of coffee they gave in sample cups. He still has his Sharpie in hand, and picks a grande cup at random, quickly going down the line of drink customizations and ticking them off with an expect hand. He glances at the guy's face for a moment before marking down 'soy' under milk options, just because it felt _right._ "You're going to get....a latte with soy milk and two pumps of raspberry syrup. Should be nice and sweet for you."

"Oh, that does sound go — "

"What's your name?"

The blond pauses, and Chuck thinks he _might_ have blanched, but why would anyone blanch when asked their name unless —

...oh.

"Raleigh?"

" _Raleigh?_ Are you asking me a question here, or —"

"No, no — Raleigh." His conviction is exaggerated, and Chuck recognizes the behavior patterns of someone who has never had their name spelled or pronounced correctly when told to a stranger _ever_. Not that he had any personal experience, but Mako had; especially when she was fresh off the boat, thick-accented and too shy to correct people. And as her best friend, he took it upon himself to be offended for her too. Likewise, he takes pity on the man and jerks his chin toward him.

"How do you spell that, _Rah_ leigh?" Okay, not _too_ much pity.

"R - A - L - E - I - G - H."

"R - A - L - E... " Chuck finishes the rest on the side of the cup in his neat, small, print letters and nods, putting the order on the bar for Joy to begin making.

"Like the city," Raleigh offers absently, with a nonchalant shrug.

"There's a city called Raleigh?"

"Yeah, in North Carolina."

"Were you born there?"

"No."

"So your parents just hate you, then." That's... probably the worst thing to say about someone's name, and Chuck's about to perfunctorily apologize when Raleigh laughs.

"Maybe, maybe — not as much as they hated my brother, then, I guess. _His_ name's Yancy."

"Oh wow, you must be the favorite child by those standards."

"My sister's name is Jazmine."

"Oh, see, that's actually not bad —"

"But with a 'z', not an 's'."

"Oh, well _now_ your mum and dad are just trying too hard. How pretentious."

Raleigh laughed and Chuck smirked a little. Someone came into the shop and he even felt a flicker of disappointment that he was going to have to cut this interaction short, then rejoice when he heard the telltale shuffle of his coworkers coming back from their 20 minute breaks. And sure enough, when Naomi clicks back in to the cashier station next to him, she beckons over the other guest with a pleasant: "I can help you right here, sir."

Chuck rang up the latte (without the additional charge for the soy milk because, after that playful banter, he may or may not have decided to flirt; and Raleigh was probably pretty enough, and got this kind of treatment regularly enough to understand _exactly_ what the implications were) but Raleigh's not looking at the little electric display above the till. He is diligently grabbing eye contact whenever Chuck looks up from the register, and smiling, and has to be _told_ his total before he hands over his debit card. While Chuck swipes the card, he can see Raleigh digging change out of his pocket for the tip jar, and tipping two dollars on a four-fifty purchase (which was more than generous).

"You'll have to let me know how you like that latte, yeah?" Chuck offers as way of parting. More people had begun to trickle through the doors, mostly exhausted, stressed out university students in need of a quick fix, and Naomi has already dealt with two customers and is beckoning forward a third. As much as it suddenly pains him to do his job, he has to.

"Yeah, I'll totally be back!" Raleigh agrees, amicable and trusting, taking back his card and pocketing it.

Before Chuck can say anything else — say goodbye, offer his phone number, greet the next customer — Natasha has loudly called across the store: "Riley? Riley, I have your order!"

And before Raleigh can grin and bear it, pick up his latte and not make any correction (because there was no way he was going to) Chuck calls back:

"It's _Rah_ leigh!"

And when Natasha rolls her eyes, and Raleigh smiles back at him, he adds a little quieter:

"Like the city."


	2. Are There Tigers In Australia?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my popular demand, (ha, haha, hahahaha) here is much awaited second chapter! i'm now too scared to tell the baristas at starbucks that my name isn't raleigh, and my coworkers laugh at me when they see it on my cups.
> 
> um, there's a little playful mockery aimed at how gay raleigh is in this chapter, and while it's playful and addressed, it's also hinting at some deeper seated residual feelings about school age bullying, which may or may not be addressed in future chapters. if there are future chapters. i didn't know how to warn for this, or if i needed to buuuut! yeah! 
> 
> once again, unbeta'd and stupid.

The next few times he sees Raleigh, he's not at the till; he's behind the bar making the drinks. They still acknowledge each other, of course. Raleigh smiles and Chuck nods at him, but it's Naomi who takes his orders both times; Naomi who bats her eyelashes and patiently listens while Raleigh lists off his drink customizations and spells out his name.

He notices once that he switches it up and orders vanilla syrup instead of raspberry, but that was undoubtedly at Naomi's insistence and Raleigh seems to decide for himself that it was a bad decision, and switches back to raspberry the next time. Chuck smirks at the cup while he steams the soy milk for his self-titled 'Riley Special' (which is actually a fairly commonly requested drink, but seems all the more special when he's making it for the big blue eyed moron with the slightly lopsided smile), and when he notices that Naomi's neglected to write his name on the side of the cup one time, he smirks a little broader; picks his Sharpie out of his apron pocket and quickly scribbles —

—

"Who the fuck is North Carolina?" Yancy drawls, leaning bare arms on the faux granite countertop. He's sticking his butt out at a ridiculous angle and looks like some pretentious model, but after four hours in a cramped office roll-y chair with no lumbar support, Raleigh can't fault or mock him for his stretch-and-wiggle. To his left, manning the computer and ticket printer, and fielding all the customers, Tendo Choi's ears perk up and he glances over at the to-go cup in Raleigh's left hand.

"Are you perhaps the older, much less cute, much less talked about brother of baby North West?"

"What do you mean, man? My baby brother's plenty cute — haven't you heard about the cute barista who wants on his dick?" Yancy rebuffs as if it were no big deal to openly discuss Raleigh's visual aesthetic, genitalia and proverbial (but currently nonexistant) sex life in a semi-crowded pizza joint. Machiavelli's wasn't as crammed as it was on a Thursday-Friday-Saturday-Sunday evening, but there were still a few families out to lunch and couples on dates around, and Raleigh was of the opinion that Yancy needed to _shut the hell up._

"Wow, hey guys, could you _not_?"

"Or wants him on _his_ dick."

" _Yancy._ "

"Or maybe he just wants to blow him."

" _Tendo!_ "

"Or for you to blow _him_."

"I — _jesus_ , you two are the _worst._ "

Tendo's mouth breaks into the most shit eating grin Raleigh's ever seen, and Yancy looks like he just swallowed a canary, bones and all. They were the worst people on the planet, and ever since Yancy knocked out Tendo's front teeth in the third grade and the two of them had become instant friends, Raleigh'd had not one, but _two_ older brothers to pick on him. Which was fine and dandy, except when they were in public. Then it sucked. Raleigh's ears were burning and he was silently praying for the strength to not cuss them out in their place of business.

"We're just helping you explore your options, Rals. You've got a lot, just in case, you know, you ever grow a pair of balls and instigate something."

"Just in case you ever man up and tell him you want to make an honest man out of him."

"In case you ever gather the guts to tell him you're into his dimples and want to know if he has them on his butt, too."

It's in this moment that Raleigh swears off hard liquor and hanging out with these two ever again, and he also sincerely regrets ever letting that erstwhile thought; he should have known better, even while plastered. Now the red in his ears is starting to creep down his neck, and when he laughs uncomfortably and looks around, he sees a little old, wrinkled lady with pizza grease around her mouth glaring at him. He blanches visibly. 

"Don't you guys have jobs to do? I could have sworn you were getting paid to do something other than sit here and pick on me."

"Pick on you?" Tendo gasped, seemingly affronted and putting a hand to his chest. "Raleigh, we would _never._ "

"Yeah, Rals erstwhile this is your quality life advice session with your two best friends —"

"You are _not_ my best friends."

"— and you should _cherish_ moments like these."

"We're not going to be around forever, you know," Tendo added. Yancy nodded gravely.

"Some day we're going to die, little man."

"Maybe hurry up with it."

"Raleigh, rude —"

"— The point _being_ ," Yancy interjected with mock seriousness, commanding both Tendo and Raleigh's attention with a few lazy flaps of his hand. "We're not always going to be here to advise you on how to get into Barista Boy's pants. The Q&A starts now, air all of your questions and concerns on the birds and the bees-with-dicks."

Raleigh flushed, if it was even possible, _harder._

"Yeah, and if you have any questions about rearing gaybies, we can field those too."

Raleigh blanched. and while his brother may have been oblivious to all his precious embarrassment, Yancy zeroes in on that discomfort the second it turns into something a little more visceral. Tendo does, too, and his smile drops before Yancy even reprimands him with a casual, "Not cool, man." It's actually kind of great — and incredibly appreciated — how they can go from mocking to protective before Raleigh can even _start_ to have a visceral high school flashback, and his heart slowly creeps down out of his throat now that neither of them are laughing at him or taunting.

"Yeah, I know," Tendo says sheepishly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Sorry, Raleigh."

"It's fine, it doesn't matter." But they both give him looks that say _no, it does_ , and he's reminded why he puts up with their rough housing and other antics: because he loves them. A lot. Something notably serious permeates the previously light hearted conversation; he can see it on Yancy's face when his older brother determinedly makes and maintains eye contact, and Tendo busies himself counting the quarters-dimes-nickles-pennies in the tip jar in front of the stack of menus.

"Is this a kiddie crush, Rals? Or are you seriously head over heels for some hipster coffee shop barista because he can pronounce your name correctly."

"He doesn't say my name right. He kinda puts this weird emphasis on the a, says it like _aaaah_ , but — like... I don't know, Yance. It's not like we've sat down and had a real conversation or anything. I don't know if he likes ice hockey or soccer or —...sports in general, I guess, or if he prefers frozen yogurt or ice cream, or if he's a vegetarian or pescetarian, or even knows the difference, or — you know, he doesn't even wear a name tag, so I don't even know his damn _name_ , but — but I..."

"But you what?"

"I — just..." Raleigh struggles to get the words out, but when he finally does, it's like a heavenly bell of truth rings, the musical tolling resonating in his chest. "— _really_ like his accent."

Yancy looks equal parts proud and like he wants to slam his face on the counter because Raleigh is a moron. But he just shakes his head, and takes the box of breadsticks when the new cook, Lance, hands them around the corner. They're one of the few things Raleigh eats from Machiavelli's, and since Yancy pretty much runs the establishment in the actual owners prolonged absenses, he gives them to him for free. Usually his little brother will give a nice tip, but from his understanding, Raleigh donates all his spare cash to the cute barista's tip jars at Broadcast Coffee, so he'll let the lovesick puppy off the hook — and leash — with just a casual shrug this time. "Well, I guess: go get him, tiger."

Raleigh takes the box, flashes a simply delighted smile at his brother, and nods enthusiastically. But, of course, being the middle child and often having to fight to be heard between Yancy, Tendo, and Jazmine, he feels the need to have the last say, and casually tosses over his shoulder as he leaves: "There aren't any tigers in Australia." Behind him, he can hear the painful _thud_ of Yancy dropping his head onto the countertop, and Tendo squawking — " _Dude!_ " — with alarm. Raleigh smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and again, that may be it, there may be more, we're gonna have to wait and see what the inspiration gods leave for me. please leave kudos & comments if you so desire, i love hearing from my audience!


	3. Girlfriends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha. haha. hahaha.
> 
> so the whole giving my name as raleigh thing as my local starbucks? yeah, the girl behind the counter spotted my striker eureka necklace and was like "aye i see what ur doing here" and i was like "aye" and then i went to work and wrote this, as well as the next chapter. aw yeah.

The next time Raleigh visits Broadcast Coffee, Barista Boy isn't in at all, and he almost loses his nerve and swears off coffee forever.

But Naomi makes eyes at him, which in and of itself isn't all that new or exciting — but then she clicks her tongue at him, and dryly remarks that he — "shouldn't look like such a sad, lost puppy. It's Chuck's day off, and 'Tasha's just as good a barista as he is —" And Raleigh suddenly doesn't consider the trip to be a complete failure. In fact, it's quite a success.

—

"He is attempting to fail me on purpose," Mako is muttering mutinously, scrolling and double tapping to enlarge her university report on her smart phone. She's been saying much to the same effect all afternoon, and at first Chuck had been very vocal in supporting her, but had figured out that Mako mostly wanted to vent aloud and wasn't looking for his input on creative ways to ruin her professors life. So he'd shut up, put one ear bud in his ear and had gently pulled her onto the bus by the elbow so she could keep writing furious emails. He'd also found them seats, and was now alternating between rocking out and patting her leg comfortingly whenever he decided she needed it. "He will ruin my GPA."

"Only if you let him," Chuck assures her — mostly for the sake of the elderly woman who was glancing at them concernedly. "If you get every question on that final right, there's no way he can fail you. He doesn't even grade them himself if they're scantron finals, so he can't tamper with 'em or fail you just _because._ "

"He will find a way."

He rolls his eyes, and considers taking her phone away so she'll stop fretting. But Mako knows every pressure point in the human body and he doesn't feel like losing his hand this day. He needs it — for important things like making coffee, jerking off, and doing homework. So instead of committing himself to a life of ambidexterity, he just bumps their shoulders together and smiles at her.

"Do you want to go blow off some steam?"

"I should study."

"Oh, come _on,_ just an hour. I know a great shooting range — don't look at me like that, it's very relaxing. I know the guy at the door, he'll even teach you how to —..."

"...Chuck?"

He's gone slack-jawed, and Mako's eyebrows make a valiant attempt to crawl off her face in the name of skepticism. His gaze is glued to something at the front of the bus, but when Mako tracks his eye line she doesn't see anything out of the ordinary. There's a small red haired child pulling on his mother's arm in an attempt to haul her to the middle section of the bus, and an old man being helped to his seat by an attractive, tall blond man, but no one was bleeding out or naked, which is what she would have guessed to be the case based on Chuck's expression.

"What is it?"

He sort of shakes his head, and finally closes his mouth to swallow.

"Chuck? What is it?"

The old man has been successfully deposited in his seat, and the blond man has looked up to search for a seat of his own, and — upon spotting the two of them, had smiled and waved, and Mako can _feel_ Chuck bristle, and can't determine if it's hostility or —

"Chuck?"

"Hey, Chuck — hey!"

Up close, Mako isn't sure how her eyeballs aren't being scorched out of her sockets with that smile. It's brilliant and toothy, and a little lopsided, but perfect and makes her heart race a little just on principal. The rest of him is equally pulse raising, and her mouth goes a little dry. But hot as he is, that doesn't make the silence between the three of them any less awkward. Because he acknowledged Chuck by name, and now Chuck's just kind of staring and the blond seems a little disappointed.

"...It's Raleigh."

"...Right, I remember," Chuck says carefully. If Mako didn't know any better, she'd say he sounded husky. Hungry. H—

"Oh!" Raleigh — _oh,_ it dawns on her in a moment of realization, _that Raleigh_ — brightens considerably, and seems to take the recognition as a sign that he can wrap his hands around the passenger railing and hang out with them as the bus starts back up again. He turns those sparkling blue eyes on her for a brief second, then back at Chuck, and then back at Mako again. And something in his irises flickers and fades, and the corner of his lips twitch, but the smile stays. "Sorry, I didn't meant to interrupt."

Finally, finally, Chuck seems to shake himself out of his stupor, but Mako has already politely shaken her head.

"You are not interrupting anything."

"Really?"

Chuck pipes up: "Yeah, Mako was just bitching —"

" _Complaining,_ " she sternly corrects. "About my engineering professor."

Raleigh nods empathetically. "Oh yeah," he agrees. "I've never met an engineering professor who wasn't at east a bit of a pain."

Chuck can feel his eyebrows go up and hears Mako voice the surprised little, "Oh?" that his lips were too numb to form himself. Raleigh is smiling directly at him and he's having a really hard time dealing with the blond man without the barrier of a counter between them. It was like he radiated sunshine and Chuck was in serious danger of getting a sunburn, and he doesn't know how well his slacks would conceal a boner if he sprung one. And he'd thought the days of immature, poorly timed erections were behind him...

Luckily, Mako is only half as starstruck, and by the time Chuck's tuned back in, she's offered him a seat — he says he'll stay standing, that's okay — and is asking him if he went to school for engineering.

"Architecture, actually," he says, smiling proudly the way people do when they start talking about things that get them really excited, that they really liked, that they were _good_ at. "But I've switched my major. Now I'm going for a masters in Childhood Development."

 _Christ_ , he was going to be a school teacher. Could he be any more perfect?

...Well, he could shit rainbows or something.

"Oh, that's —" Chuck flounders. Mako, angel that she is, cuts in again. She seems to have picked up on the fact that Raleigh pretty much reduces him to a conversationally incompetent infant, and quickly supplies:

"That is lovely." _Bless her._ "Chuck is awful with children." _Fuck her._

That works as well as anything else to snap him out of his bedazzled stupor (again), and he glares at her. Mako grins and Raleigh kind of laughs, but he's still peeved and resolutely ignores the flip flops his stomach does.

"It's okay," Raleigh says understandingly, nodding his head and looking at Chuck again. "They're kinda chaotic hellions. I'm just used to dealing with hellions and all manners of chaos, I guess."

"Oh. Do you have children?"

_Mako._

"Oh, no — just, just siblings."

"Do you have a wife?"

" _Mako!_ " This time he squawks aloud, but any further objection he has die in his throat when Raleigh laughs a little uncomfortably, but still genuinely.

"No, I haven't even got a girlfriend, I —" He looks between them and some sort of light dies in his eyes. Chuck's not entirely sure what just happened — Raleigh looks at Mako, and suddenly seemed to deflate a little. Chuck's mind's whirling and and settles on the idea that his work place crush must have just gotten out of a relationship and being residually heartbroken. That scenario made the hurt in his eyes make sense. And Chuck hurt _for_ him, and wanted to soothe that hurt with kisses, but a visceral reaction to the word _girlfriend_ meant that at one point he probably had one, which meant he was most likely —

Fuck.

His hand shoots up to pull the chord that signaled to the driver that someone wanted to get off at the next stop. Someone had already pulled it, and the little red "stop" light at the front was already glowing, but Chuck pulled it anyway and then stood up. The bus started to slow and when he pulled Mako to her feet as well, they sort of awkwardly stumble. Raleigh steps back so they don't all collide, but looks rather confused about this whole song and dance.

"Sorry, this is our stop, bye —"

And it feels like Mako is going to object, or worse; loudly proclaim that _no, Chuck, this is not our stop_ and give up the whole jig — so he talks over her when she opens her mouth, and starts pulling her toward the front door. Mako could, of course, easily kick his ass, and Chuck suspects that the only reason he's making any headway here is because she's letting him.

"Bye!" he shouts once more over the screech of the poorly tended bus tires. He thinks Raleigh might have said something in return, but doesn't hear him properly and doesn't pause to ask him to repeat himself.

"Chuck Hansen!" Mako reprimands once they're on the pavement and the bus is speeding away. "What is your excuse for that?"

"Just walk," he mutters, head down and dropping her arm in favor of shoving his hands into his pockets. He feels like _sulking,_ and not being reprimanded for his poor manners. And like when Mako feels like ranting and not being comforted, and he respects _that_ , she falls into step beside him quietly, and respects him right back.

—

To say Raleigh was distracted was an understatement. To say Raleigh was being dumb was also an understatement. In fact, the only way Yancy could think to accurately describe how completely pathetic his younger brother was being is something along the lines of —

"If you run into one more fucking mailbox, I'm going to leave you here to fend for yourself, and you _will_ die."

Raleigh gives him an utterly tragic look, and Yancy rolls his eyes. Okay, _no_ , he wouldn't actually leave his pathetic baby brother to fend for himself like that — the wolves of the world would probably eat a pretty thing like him alive. Hell, if even _mailboxes_ were trying to jump him, maybe he needed a little protecting, and so when faced with the sad, sad puppy dog eyes, Yancy rolls his own eyes but swerves to walk closer to Raleigh and flings his arm around his shoulder.

"Hey, you okay, kiddo?"

"No.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Well, that's too bad, because we are going to talk about it."

"Yancy —" Raleigh tries to cut him off, but is overrun.

"It's been years, Rals. Years. You know you're allowed to get over things, right? You're allowed to move on, and maybe not _forget_ about people, but at least stop letting their ghosts lord over you."

There's a long moment of silence, and Yancy thinks his message is hitting home. But Raleigh sounds more confused than he usually does when he says, "What?"

"You can't dwell on this all the time, man. I know it fucked you up, it fucked me up, too."

"Yancy. Man, _what_ —"

"But it wasn't your fault. It wasn't my fault — it wasn't _anyone's_ fault except his."

"I don't know what you're —" Raleigh starts once more, but Yancy cuts him off yet again, and squeezes his shoulder for emphasis — or maybe for comfort.

"If it's going to make you feel better, we can go visit her grave tomorrow. I've got the closing shift, so we could go in the morning, and give Jaz a call. We could even bake a red velvet cake, like she used to for your birthday."

Realization hits him like a freight train, like a punch to the gut, and suddenly Raleigh feels a little sick because Yancy is talking about their mom; about their mom, and their dad, and their little sister, and baking birthday cakes, and _he'd_ been sulking about a boy — an insignificant boy who maybe made his heart beat in funny ways, but who also didn't know his last name — and who'd turned out to be disappointingly straight. Sheepishly, Raleigh rubs a hand across the back of his neck and nods.

"Yeah, man. That sounds great. Let's do it."

And Yancy seems satisfied enough with that answers that he nods and lets the serious tone drop out of his voice as quickly as it had appeared. He smiles and nods in return. They walk for a few more minutes in comfortable, brotherly silence before Yancy's unslinging the arm he'd had around Raleigh's shoulders and pulling him by the elbow.

"Wha —"

"I want a coffee, kiddo."

Raleigh glances up to see the sign above the coffee house door and freezes up. But it's too late, and his brother's already hauling him over the threshold when he tries to backpedal.

"Wait, Yancy, no —"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this just keeps getting stupider and stupider i mean goddamn is this story dumb.


	4. Fuck

Chuck would say today was shaping up to be a shit show, but that’d somehow manage to be a complete and total understatement. For starters, Naomi had called out sick and that had left only the newest member of their team, a timid boy named Franklin, to open by himself. Chuck had slept in and taken the leisurely route to work, which he discovered upon arrival that he really shouldn’t have done because Broadcast looked like a war zone. The lounge area had been clean enough, but behind the counter had been a slaughterhouse; coffee beans had been everywhere, milk puddles streaked the ground and granite countertops alike, and an older man had been screaming at Franklin when Chuck had been clocking in — apparently waiting for hs coffee had made him late for a very important meeting and he’d just lost $10 million in revenue for some big advertisement deal or another, so he was threatening to sue Franklin for the $10 million now. Which was completely ridiculous. It took almost all of Chuck’s self control not to roll his eyes out of his sockets when he intervened, and he may have baited the man a little by inviting him to sue for %50 million — “I don’t want people thinking my friend Frankie is cheap, you know?” — but the smarmy old man had left, in a huff sure, but he’d left. The rush had hit early, with a swarm of caffeine starved 20-somethings mumbling their orders and expecting their coffee to manifest in their hands as soon as they’d finished paying. It’d been hell, and Joy had been a little late, but her arrival had been like a beacon in the storm. Three baristas/cashiers were definitely better than two — especially when one of those two was fretting about how he was going to come up with $50 million. 

Joy was off her usual top game, but she still waved him off for a much needed break after the line had become manageable. Their employee lounge was tiny, and right by the dishwasher so it was always incredibly loud, but it was warm in the winter and cool in the summer, and there were lockers where they could store their shit. For emergencies — and emergencies only, because Chuck could be kind of a health nut — there’s a package of menthol cigarettes and a book of matches in the back of his locker. And now, because today had been full of miniature emergencies, he fishes them out and goes through the employee only door into the back alleyway. Leaning against the brick wall between the door and a smelly dumpster, he toys with the cigarette between his teeth for a good thirty seconds before committing to reeking of tobacco for the rest of the day and striking one of the matches to life. The first drag is always a little harsh; if he smoked a little more regularly it wouldn’t be, but then he’d have to label himself as a smoker. But after he passes the first hump, it’s reasonably smooth sailing.

He returns from his break to see Franklin almost crying into the medium roast beans, and Joy smirking. He feels marginally better until he’s told:

“You just missed your boyfriend.”

“…fuck.”

—

Raleigh’s practically sweating bullets by the time they make it back outside. He’s clutching his italian soda like a lifeline and wetter than the condensation beading on the side of his all natural, compostable plastic cup. Yancy is torn between letting him shake and sweat it out, and launching a full blown interrogation. But he kind of doubts his little brother would be able to formulate real words; he’s doing this sort of haunted-fish thing, where his mouth moves but no sound comes out, and he looks like he’s seen death.

He can only sip on his own coffee quietly for so long, however, and eventually has to bump into his brother. When that fails to jerk Raleigh from his stupor, Yancy drives his elbow into his brother’s arm. Hard.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t make an effort to sound remotely sorry. From the wounded look Raleigh gives him, he’s picked up on the unapologetic nature of his brother’s tone.

“Like hell —“

“Dude, what is _up_ with you?”

And looking at Raleigh, he can see the muscles under his jaw working and it looks for a split second, like he’s going to try to bullshit his answer. But then, like he realizes he’s just too transparent: sometimes it’s like they’ve spent a little too much time in one another’s heads, and now secrets are useless. So he sighs, and deflates a little.

“That’s the place, man.”

“…What?”

“The _place._ ”

“…Fuck.”

—

One would think that knowing the exact reason behind Raleigh’s reluctance to go into Broadcast Coffee, he’d steer clear of the place. But meddlesome big brother that he is, Yancy drags Raleigh into the shop about three more times before he wises up and stops “going out” with him. By that point, however, Yancy has become addicted to the blueberry danishes behind the counter — and the pretty blond with the dainty handwritten name tag that read _Naomi_ , and the artistic mastery of coffee sweetener and tea syrup — and was as much of a goner as Raleigh with his totally unnecessary caffeine addiction. Four out of four times he goes, it’s Naomi who either rings him up (with a stunning smile) or gives him his order at the pick up bar (with a wink) — but the fifth time, as if the stars aligned to provide him this golden opportunity, it’s a young man behind the till, poring over a textbook that looked far too dense and technical to be much fun. He snaps up when Yancy enters his peripheral vision.

And if the hopeful smile that quickly melts off his face when he realizes he’s snagged the wrong brother wasn’t enough of a give away, the intense Australian accent that bubbled over his lips when he spoke — “What can I get for ya?” — was more than enough of one.

Yancy smiled, something predatory playing about his lips, and leaning on the counter.

“Where’s Naomi?”

Chuck’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspiciously. “In Canada.”

“Ah.”

“With her boyfriend.”

_Ouch,_ Yancy thought, but thinks he manages to keep the grimace off his features quite nicely. He sort of shrugs, like he didn’t really care anyway, and sweeps his gaze over his brother’s crush, taking in the freckles, the green eyes, the perpetually pissed off quirk of the lips… _Really, Rals? Really?_ “Shame that,” is the extent of his verbalized self pity. Then he’s looking the barista — _Barista Boy! At last…_ — in the eyes, trying to see if he’ll flinch or look away. And to his credit, he doesn’t. “What about you?”

“What about me?” But he’s bristling.

“What’s your name?”

There’s about six seconds where he can tell the kid is debating not telling him — he’s not wearing a name tag for a reason, obviously — but something (maybe the incredibly smug smirk) on Yancy’s face clues Chuck in on the fact that he already knows. He purses his lips, and he grudgingly grits out: “Chuck. Hansen.”

“Hansen,” Yancy echoes, nodding in admiration — of himself, of course. Two minutes with Barista Boy and he already knew more than Raleigh did. If he hadn’t been in public, he might have patted himself o the back, or self-fived. As it was, he was going to have to settle for a smug smile. “Do you want to know my name?”

“Why would I want to know your name?”

“For my cup.” It probably wasn’t strictly busy enough for him to need a name to distinguish one order from another, but it was probably some sort of protocol given they’d always asked him for it before. That smug smile grows a little more smug at how flustered Hansen is getting, particularly around the ears.

“You haven’t even ordered yet.”

“So defensive,” Yancy drawls. But he’s right. “Can I have a green tea, and a blueberry danish? Please. And the name’s Yancy.”

Which registers, viscerally, from the looks of it: Chuck jabs a button on the till so sharply that his finger pops a little, and he recoils in discomfort. Oh yeah, he knows him — or at least, knows _of_ him. He and Raleigh might be a far cry from twins, but they look similar enough for drunk college co-eds to ask them if they were identical, so sober pissy baristas should be able to put _R_ and _Y_ together and get _Becket._

The sardonic barista has rung up the order haltingly, and even more stop and go, picks up the pen and the cup. And he looks just so unhappy that something affectionate blooms in Yancy’s chest and he decidedly _likes_ Chuck Hanse, the Australian barista at Broadcast Coffee.

Handing over his debit card, he adds:

“Can I ask you something? Actually, two somethings —“

—

Bruce Gage is _murdering_ Raleigh in Mario Kart when Yancy walks in, but the gloating and whooping instantly changes to cheers of delight and encouragement — Trevin and Tendo poke their heads in from the kitchen, where they’re making some of their famous triple layer nachos — when Yancy throws the coffee sleeve at Raleigh; the extra one he’d picked up, and that Chuck Hansen had scrawled his phone number on.

Raleigh sort of gapes at the paper in his hand, and Yancy things he might be beyond words. But to his credit, Raleigh finally — _finally_ — manages a guttural: “Well… _fuck._ ”

—

Chuck Hansen gets home with complete and total composure; locks his door behind him and everything, and proceeds into the main area of his apartment to greet Max. And it’s while ruffling his wrinkles that it dawns on him the magnitude of what just happened.

“ _Do you like guys? Specifically my brother?_ ” Yancy Becket had asked, and when he’d gone pink around the ears as way of answer, the blond man had grinned something feral, and then proceeded to ask: “ _Can I have your phone number?_ ”

And he’d said yes.

He’d said _yes._

“I —… oh, _fuck._ "


End file.
